


Never

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Actual lesbians in this, Angst, Drabbles, Fluff, Humor, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 00:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12287337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: Duncan had never seen so much red.__________Alistair rolls onto his side instead, burying his face in Cousland's thigh. “Never,” he mumbles.__________Cassandra had never written a poem, nor did she intend to.__________Dorian had never kissed a man he did not own.__________Isabela had never been a child.__________The Iron Bull had never known a man who wore makeup.





	1. Cailan/Duncan

**Author's Note:**

> So....this little anthology is years old. I never got around to finishing it. I eventually realized I never would. So I may as well publish it as is.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it. I sure as hell had fun writing it.

Duncan had never seen so much red. There was red in the sky where the sun was quickly retreating. There was red on the darkspawn, horrific body paint stretching like skeletons over their vein-blue hide. There was red on the ground, bleeding from King Cailan’s men as freely as sweat. 

And there was red on the darkspawn that came at Duncan. He quickly deflected the hit and swung around in time to see the ogre’s path.

Cailan stood there, shining gold in his brilliant armor and unbound hair. He was a beacon.

The ogre surged forward and Cailan spun around, last of his enemies crumpling beneath his elbow. Cailan lashed out with his sword. It sliced only air and the ogre gripped his waist. It roared, bathing Cailan’s face with spittel. Its knuckles tightened and blood gushed from Cailan, bones cracking and resounding like a cry from Heaven. Something heavy slammed into Duncan’s back, knocking him to the ground. 

The ogre tossed Cailan aside. The gold of his armor and his hair mingled with blood. His body set the ground aflame.

The beast heaved a war cry, great arms outspread as if in boast. Duncan saw Cailan, gold marred by red, and he felt rage like fire. Sword in hand, he leapt to his feet and charged, grabbing the dual sword strapped to his back. Raw energy drove his knees as he jumped and plunged both blades into the ogre’s chest. Blood bursted into his face and Duncan extracted one blade to slash its clavicle. He pulled out each sword, one at a time, before digging them into the ogre’s meat again and again. Duncan embedded the dagger in its chest and held on as the ogre plummeted. 

The world rushed past his head. 

His stomach flew to his throat. 

The ogre was dead on the ground.

Duncan released the blades and sat up. The moment he did, searing pain made itself known in his gut. He doubled over, clutching himself. Across from him, against the calm grass, Cailan was lifeless.

Duncan stood heavily, every step threatening to lay him flat, and dragged himself over. Red encircled Cailan’s mutilated body in a way that looked sickeningly like a throne. Duncan sagged to his knees. still holding his gut as he surveyed the war around them. Men fell, wingless. Discarded angels. And atop the Tower of Ishal, a call went unanswered.


	2. Female Cousland/Alistair

Cousland's fingers weave through his short hair and Alistair thinks,  _ I would happily dream of getting eaten by the Archdemon if this was every night.  _ He likes to lay his head in her lap and close his eyes, loves her gentleness all the more because he knows it's not her nature. 

“You remind me of my mabari,” she says, snickering, and he can see her smile behind his eyelids. Alistair fancies they could have a million walls dividing them and he'd still know if she smiled. 

“You love Leo,” Alistair reminds her, keeping his eyes shut but furrowing his brows. 

Cousland makes a thoughtful sound. “Must be why I love you,” she speculates. Alistair's eyes flutter open and he grins big at her. Cousland smiles toothily and strokes his hair. “Father always said I spent too much time around the dog kennels,” she muses. 

Her head tilts downward and her long, tight braids tickle Alistair's nose. He tugs at one of them. “We're good suitors, dogs," he reasons. “Loyal, unpretentious.” He sighs heavily, “Strong.”

“Little too much tongue sometimes.”

Alistair drops his jaw. “I take offense to that.”

Cousland tweaks his nose. “Sorry.”

He swats her hand away.  _ “You _ are mean and  _ I _ don't like you.”

Cousland shrugs. “Alright. Then get out of my lap.”

Alistair rolls onto his side instead, burying his face in Cousland's thigh. “Never,” he mumbles. He's going to need her when the nightmares come.


	3. Female Trevelyan/Cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is my personal favorite.

Cassandra had never written a poem, nor did she intend to. She had tried a few times in her youth, but the quill always stopped short on the parchment. The fine tip would still, ink bleeding onto blank vellum, until there was a thick black dot where her feelings should be. How the great lyricists translated the raw into the articulate was a skill Cassandra has resigned herself to uncomprehending admiration. 

And she was okay. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but Cassandra fought with what Andraste had blessed her. She believed that was enough for the Maker, and so it was enough for her. 

But Trevelyan made Cassandra feel like her sword was no better than a particularly sharp twig. Trevelyan stood beneath the rifts, Andraste working through the very pads of her fingers, green light limning her pale cheekbones. Her eyes were as clear as cold, clean air as she stared at the broken sky and righted the world piece by piece. She cleared Cassandra's head. Made everything so bright. She was poetry given breath. 

Cassandra could give her life for Treveylan. Treveylan could be a cause, all on her own, and Cassandra would proudly wear her emblem on her armor. 

Yet in this one area of life, sacrifice was not sufficient: how did anyone look upon pure white and justify staining it in blood? How could Cassandra excuse wanting to touch the Maker's hand with her own and lower Trevelyan to just another woman? 

Treveylan was meant for greater things than Cassandra.

 

One night, Trevelyan knocks on Cassandra's door. Her cheeks are pink, as if she's been in a fight, but she grins in a way that suggests she's more drunk than battle-winded. Cassandra invites her in and Treveylan spins around, walking backwards. The back of her knees hit the bed and she lets herself fall, arms spread.

Cassandra hesitantly closes the door. “Did you want something?” she asks, still grasping the knob.

Trevelyan sits up. Strands of fair hair eclipse her face, resting at her pointed nose. She shoves them back, movement less delicate than usual. She'll need a haircut soon. 

Her ears stick out, like they always do, and Cassandra nearly smirks from the memory of Trevelyan convincing Sera that all nobles stretched their infants' ears with rope. Tonight, the tips of them are as red as her cheeks. It's the most colorful Cassandra has seen her. 

“Well?” Cassandra repeats. She's uncertain where to step, so she stays planted at the door.

“Sorry,” apologizes Trevelyan. “I walked here because I thought you might want to see me.”

Cassandra chooses her words with care. “Not that your presence is unwanted, but I hardly requested a visit. I was on my way to bed.”

Trevelyan nods. Pulls her feet up and wraps her arms around her legs. “Mostly I wanted to see you. I figured if I missed you, then there was a good chance a psychic link had formed and we were mutually experiencing a desire for company.”

When she says things like that, Cassandra remembers how she found her unconscious at the Conclave, glowing from the Fade with no idea how she got there. Cassandra remembers how  _ strange  _ Trevelyan is. 

Cassandra smiles wryly. “As interesting as that sounds, Inquisitor, I doubt that is the case.”

Trevelyan shrugs, flexes her fingers. “Stranger things have happened,” she retorts, lips quirking into that odd, Fade-touched smile. 

“That is true,” Cassandra concedes. Her hand drops from the doorknob. “You happened.”

Trevelyan stirs, sits on her knees and grips the edge of the bed. “We should shoot for super-strange. We'll both be very weird together.”

Cassandra decides to play along. “And how do you propose we do that?” 

Trevelyan's grin widens, pleased. Cassandra did something right, then. Trevelyan rocks slightly, back and forth, nervously. “How strange would it be if we kissed?”

Cassandra had once been mind-blasted by a Venatori agent in Emprise du Lion. Her spine had made a crunching sound when an invisible force knocked her against a snowbank. Her boots slid across the ice and she landed flat on her butt. 

This was not unlike that time. 

“Indeed. It would be strange,” Cassandra agrees. She watches every twitch of Trevelyan's face, sifting slowly through the debris in her head for a coherent thought. 

Treveylan persists at the silliness. “Do you want to be strange then?”

Cassandra wants her to stop asking questions. Cassandra doesn't know the answers. 

Trevelyan glances down at the mattress beneath her. “Maybe I shouldn't sit here,” she muses, standing up and closing the distance between them. She freezes an inch away, not touching Cassandra, just looking. Up close, Cassandra can see the scar slashing through her eyebrow. Unthinking, she smoothes over it with her finger. 

Cassandra pauses, hand suspended in the air. “Sometimes,” she says, just a breath, “I forget you're as human as the rest of us.”

Trevelyan's mouth tugs upward, but her voice is soft. “Sometimes I forget everyone forgets that.” Cassandra can hear the chuckle behind her teeth. 

She has a sudden thought. “Do you write poetry?” she asks. It's apropos of nothing, she realizes, and worries for a second that it comes off wrong. But Trevelyan's own manner of talking is mismatched, and Cassandra relaxes. She won't sound simple to her. 

“Yes,” Trevelyan answers effortlessly, as if her attempts at capturing the world in pretty words never warranted shame. 

“You should show me one day,” Cassandra suggests. Then again, Trevelyan may not want to share such private things with her. “That is, if you are okay with my reading it.”

Trevelyan cradles the nape of Cassandra's neck. Her hands are chilly. Trevelyan lowers her just enough for their noses to brush and for the heat of Trevelyan's ale-thick breath to melt the brittleness in Cassandra's nerves. “Tomorrow, same hour,” plans Treveylan. “I shall bring some poems with me. My favorites, too, so don't laugh.”

Cassandra kisses away her warning. 


	4. Dorian (Solo)

Dorian had never kissed a man he did not own. That had been okay for most of his adolescence. He would watch them in their simple rags, bent over wine-stained floors, sweat lining their shirt collars like jewelry. When he grew bored of staring, he would stride over and invite them to bed in the same tone he would point out a shelf needing dusting. 

It was impossible not to feel wanted when their arms kept him so close he could feel their heartbeat in his own chest. They had never said  _ no. _

It wasn’t till much later in his youth that Dorian realized rejection implied the other had a choice. It wasn’t until much later Dorian realized he had never kissed a man who had said  _ yes  _ and meant it.


	5. Isabela/Merrill

Isabela had never been a child. Everyone thinks that’s ridiculous, but it is truer than most of the things she’s said. Isabela was among the few girls who had simply been born a woman. She learned how to kill, thieve, and lie before her tits came in - and she was no late bloomer. Isabela ranked womanhood by how well a broad could run a ship. The sea, like many women, needed a woman’s touch. And no pirate could deny a siren. That was just the way of the waves.

Such was the speech Isabela had given Merrill, anyway. It was hard not to boast around her - her green eyes got all big and wide, like Isabela was so much more than a selfish cheat with dirt-caked nails and overgrown pits. 

Merrill had insisted she could never run a ship. She just wasn’t the pirate type. Not that, of course, there was anything  _ wrong _ or  _ unsavory _ about being a pirate. In fact, it all seemed rather exciting. It fit Isabela quite nicely, Merrill thought.

Isabela had invited Merrill to sail with her. Isabela hadn’t expected Merrill to say yes, and she was right. Merrill’s place was with the city elves, hungry as her for a lost culture they hoped to resurrect with relics and lore. Isabela’s place was always, _ always  _ with the sea. 

“A life without salt on your skin and waves beneath your feet is hardly a life at all,” Isabela once told her. They were standing on Isabela’s ship, parked at the docks, the night before Isabela finally reclaimed the Eastern Seas.

“That’s beautiful,” Merrill sighed. She got a little wistful on mead. Then she squeaked out an  _ “oh!”  _ and hiccupped. “I have something for you!” She crouched down and rummaged through her satchel until she presented a glass bottle in her palm. Inside was a wooden doll carved in Merrill’s likeness. Beside her, a mini Isabela. “It’s us in a bottle! Because I can’t come with you.” 

Isabela gingerly accepted the bottle from Merrill’s slender fingers. She took in the the painted-on smiles and the oceanic fabric stuffed around the dolls to keep them from moving. 

“It’s silly,” Merrill admitted momentarily. “I know, you probably think I’m a little kid, giving a gift like this.” Her hands fluttered toward the bottle. “I just know I’ll be lonely without you, and The Hanged Man won’t be nearly enjoyable, so I figured you’d be lonely too. Which I don’t want, because pirating is supposed to be fun.”

“It’s cute,” Isabela complimented. She pressed it to her heart. “I’ll keep it by my bunk,” she promised. “But I’m coming back, kitten. You know that, right?”

Merrill’s eyes grew impossibly large again. “You are?” she asked, astonished. 

In all fairness, it was a surprise to Isabela too. A return trip had certainly not been in the plan. Kirkwall was not the same since the Chantry, everyone slowly drifting and going their separate ways. Their group was feeling less and less whole. 

But Isabela had two homes now, two powerful women who would call to her no matter what.

She would have to return to Kirkwall eventually, if she hoped to see this girl again. She couldn’t keep Merrill in a bottle, no more than she could trap the entire sea in one. That was just the way of the waves. 


	6. Dorian/Iron Bull

The Iron Bull had never known a man who wore makeup. Then again, maybe he had, and just wasn’t aware of all the men walking the planet layered in expensive cosmetics. He wasn’t aware Dorian wore makeup until he took a backwards dive in the river.

“You know,” Sera started, mouth stuffed with a fistful of berries, “I get the feeling Cullen doesn’t like me much.” Dorian, the Bull, and Sera were returning from Redcliffe. The Inquisitor meandered lazily behind them, picking every embrium plant and elfroot she found.

“I can’t imagine why,” Dorian responded. He shot a pointed look at the juice coating Sera’s lips and chin. “What with your infinite charm and table manners.”

“I don’t see no table around here,” Sera remarked, gums smacking as she gobbled her berries. “Do you, Bull?”

“Nope,” the Bull said cheerfully. “No tables.”

“Impressive!” praised Dorian. “So your uncouthness needs not a table to repulse everyone around you.”

Sera popped the last berry in her mouth. “You know your problem, fancy-robes?”

“I’m drowning in my own curiosity.”

“You need to loosen up,” she informed.

Dorian laughed dryly. “Loosen up?” he quoted. He opened his mouth as if to retort, but Sera interrupted.

“Yeah, like - loosen up.” As she spoke, Sera suddenly outstretched her palms and shoved Dorian into the bubbling river fed by a waterfall. Dorian let out a yelp as he tumbled, elegant robes preventing any fight for balance as they tangled between his boots. His body impacted the water, splashing the Bull and Sera. Dorian went completely under for two seconds, finally breaking the surface as he spluttered and spat. Sera shook off the water like a dog.

Dorian wiped his eyes, every move a flourish of agitation as he awkwardly sloshed toward land. _“That_ did _not_ loosen me up.” His robes sagged, weighing him down. The Iron Bull came forward and offered his hand. Dorian accepted and the Bull reeled him in. Dorian stumbled over the rocks before steadying himself.

“I don’t know,” Sera quipped. “You look pretty loose to me.”

Dorian was wringing his sleeves out. His hair hung in limp strings over his face, and all around his eyes were puddles of black. “How do you figure?” he asked haughtily, attention fixated on removing the soggy from his clothes.

Sera giggled wickedly. “You’re _wet.”_

Dorian dropped his arms and looked skywards, expression pained. “I do enjoy our deeply intellectual conversations, Sera.”

Sera snorted. “Whatever. _Snob.”_

Dorian huffed. “Maybe I can work this to my advantage somehow,” he contemplated. His voice took on a heroic inflection. “Say a beast of legend rose from the waters and I vanquished it with a single spell.” He finished prosaically with, “Said beast of legend thus fell to the ocean floor and splashed me.” His eyes were smudged and his cheeks had lost some sharpness. He was the messiest Bull had ever seen him. He looked like something the cat had dragged in, drenched and slightly shivering.

He looked like something that belonged in Bull’s bed.

Bull heard footsteps from behind. The Inquisitor had finally caught up, satchel stuffed with herbs and slung over her shoulder. “I overheard some splashing,” she said, “and assumed Sera had jumped in for a swim.”

“Not quite,” said Bull.

“Nope, just me,” Dorian clarified. “And the stench of every fungus-infested fish that’s made the water its bed and chamber pot.”

“Hey,” Sera objected, “I’m the one who pushed you in. Figures you’d try to take all the credit.”

“My apologies,” replied Dorian flatly.

The Inquisitor smirked. “Serves you right, Pavus.” She snapped her fingers and started ahead, signaling the rest to get a move on. Sera skipped forward and chattered away with the Inquisitor.

Bull matched his pace to Dorian’s. “Think about it this way,” Bull proposed, “Sera saved you a trip to the baths at Skyhold.”

Dorian scoffed. “If anything, I’m due for two baths. I’m positively grimy. I need a thorough wash.” Dorian sniffed his sleeves and grimaced.

“Need help with that?” Bull offered. He barely meant anything by it, the joke slipped automatically, but Dorian still stiffened. What would he do if Dorian ever said yes? Would it change them irrevocably, ruin what they had now, add a promise Bull wasn’t sure he could trust himself with?

Dorian rejected the idea anyway. “I’m - quite alright.” He faltered a little. Bull was getting to him, for better or for worse.


End file.
